


The Christmas Tradition

by ikoliholic



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Loki Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-12 21:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9091588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikoliholic/pseuds/ikoliholic
Summary: My StuckyThorki Secret Santa gift for allyouneedisthorki. So sorry it's late, hope you enjoy x
  Loki learns that down on petty little Midgard, great numbers of mortals are celebrating a much revered festive season. He decides to make his brother laugh with tales of human idiocy, not yet realising that perhaps Thor and he may begin a risky tradition of their own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was intended to be a lovely little Christmas fluff. But because of uh, me being me, it developed The Flangst. Sorry about that. 
> 
> Merry (kinda belated) Christmas!

“Midgardians are fools.” Loki swirls around in his brand new battledress, checking his reflection in the golden mirror. He’s opted for the dark grey leathers, intricate gold weavings adorning them — and a more rebellious emerald green tunic than advised. “All of them.”

In a world not so far away, many mortals are celebrating a season of festivities: Christmas. In the book his mother had given him earlier that week, explained in vivd detail were the supposed origins of the event itself, and how it is celebrated in different ways across the world.

Frankly, it sounded absurd. Loki just _had_ to tell his brother about the mortal way for pettiness and stupidity.

Thor Odinson. A young warrior and dreamer both. He sits in a plush, blood red velvet chair in Loki’s dressing chamber, watching the mirror’s reflection with measured interest. Mjolnir lies in his lap, clenched tight by possessive fist.

“Imagine them,” Loki continues, brushing across green lapels now with delicate fingers while turning his chin up in the air. The chest piece and vambraces are ever so slightly too big on him, but he will fill out soon like Thor, no doubt. “Opening gifts of pitiful-little-to-no value, in worship to a false God.” He titters. “Eating foods that are barely worthy of consumption — all the while imagining themselves kings at a feast.”

“I think you’re jealous,” Thor says in response, though he knew it was rhetorical. Creeping up close behind Loki, his glare assessing— almost cruel. Then he smiles an impish, youthful grin. “One day in the year where beloveds are spoiled with pointless trinkets, dreadful jests and amusing tall tales? Why, it sounds like your own personal _Valhalla_ , brother.”

Loki scowls. Well, Thor’s not entirely wrong: he _is_ jealous. Though not of mortals and their pathetic gifts.

Loki is jealous of Thor.

He scowls again. “And what of you, with _that_ thing?” he bites, gesturing to Mjolnir. It had _officially_ been granted to Thor three days past. In a wildly ostentatious ceremony, Loki thought. Not only that, but a huge celebratory feast had followed, and all of Asgard lauded his big brother getting his little toy hammer. He grins at Thor’s wounded expression, knowing the mark has been met. “One would almost think that perhaps father did furnish at least _one_ of us an aptly-timed christmas gift. The favoured child as ever.”

“Absurd,” Thor frowns. “It is mere coincidence.”

Loki’s lips tighten. “Is that so.”

Thor’s expression sneaks into a smile as he remembers something. “Besides brother, you were bequeathed new leathers and fabrics just today, were you not? Fine Christmas clothes they are!”

“Hmm, let me think. Stretched calfskin, or a magical hammer that can destroy and rebuild the Realms? No contest.” As Loki rolls his eyes, he glances at Mjolnir. He scowls again, remembering something, “Meanwhile, Father would not yet allow me those beautiful daggers from his wretched Vault. What good are they sitting there, untarnished and unused?”

Thor barks with merriment. “Hush now, brother — unless you do _not_ want me to take you flying through the sky tonight.”

“There is no need. I will learn how to fly with seid,” Loki says, haughty. “You wait.”

“I have no doubt,” Thor laughs. “Perhaps a hundred years from now. Until then, you are most welcome to join me.” He goes to the door that leads to the balcony. Before he closes it behind him, he smirks and offers a final thought, “Besides, the tighter leathers do look _most becoming_ on you.”

Loki’s face flushes crimson and his fists clench into balls.

“A decade at most,” he mutters to his own reflection.

Nevertheless, he turns on his heels and follows Thor out onto the chamber balcony. Asgard is beautiful this time of evening; the start of setting sun. The sky glows purple and orange with flecks of green and pink, awaiting the blue-black tint of night to fall.

Through wild gesticulation and mocking stance, Loki tells his big brother every single dreadful thing he’s learned about the Midgard Feast of Christmas. Thor leans against the as cool marble as he listens and laughs.

Darkness is just about to fall, and the stars now light up the night. Loki comes back out to the balcony with two hot drinks.

“If we were mortal, what would you gift me for Christmas?” Thor asks once Loki sits down beside him. Loki quickly but carefully considers.

“A book.”

“A particular book?” Thor’s eyebrows quirk. It was not the mischievous response expected.

“No no,” Loki says. “Just a book. To encourage you to read.” His eyes dance now. “With the added benefit of me not having to spin you yarns.”

Thor looks hurt at first, then smiles. “Well, I would gift _you_ some tighter leathers. I do not think those ones are quite tight enough.”

“So says you,” Loki retorts, though his eyes still dance. “With your biceps on display as though a bull on market parade.”

“It is the fashion!” Thor holds his own bicep in mock offence. “And have care with your words, or perhaps one day you’ll experience the power of the Mighty Thor’s arms ringing your neck.” A knowing hands weaves its way to the nape of Loki’s neck then and gives him a good shake.

But it lingers, as often it might.

Their breaths stifle, just a little. Loki shrugs away when he can take no more arduous blue.

“Better that I’d have a rung neck than a bare-biceped outfit.”

Thor realises something then. “You never show any of your body.”

“I do not.” There.

“Are you ashamed?” He asks next.

Defences flare. “ _Should_ I be ashamed?”

“No,” Thor replies, without hesitation. “You are beautiful.”

“I am _different_. Not beautiful,” Loki’s mind reels. “Maidens are beautiful, Thor. Not men.”

Thor could laugh and accuse Loki of being scarcely a man at all— given that he was only last year allowed his first sip of wine, but he does not. Instead he ruffles, shuffles uncomfortably. “Well then, you are _handsome_.”

“No. _You_ are handsome. I am different.” Loki says, contrary. “And I am mocked enough.”

“I am not mocking you, brother.”

“Yes, well. You need not be so cruel on this special day of _Christ_.”

Thor laughs loudly at his brother’s farcical words. “I think we should celebrate Christmas every year henceforth.”

“Now it is _you_ who is absurd,” Loki chides. “We are literal gods. What need have we for such tall tales?”

“We are not gods,” Thor corrects. “And do not forget, our tales sound just as tall to mortal ears,” he adds, tone light and contrary.

Loki raises an eyebrow of derision. “Well, we’re not exactly going to die tomorrow, are we?”

Thor silences at this. “The Norns have their ways,” he warns. “We must never tempt or aggrieve them.”

_Loki_ is silent then.

“Have you ever read about Midgard’s other festivals?”

Loki sighs. Perhaps one day Thor will pay attention. “Technically we _both_ have, though you are clearly too inept to remember.”

“Are there any more Christmas tales to share that you can remember?” Thor asks with a chuckle, sipping the last drop of drink and placing it on the ground.

“Well, no.” Loki thinks. “Though I do vaguely recall an old Norse myth concerning me murdering our brother, Baldr. With a favoured festive poisonous plant.”

“There’s another brother in these myths?!”

“You are truly hopeless, Thor.” Loki laughs, but inside his stomach twists with unwarranted jealousy. “I would tell mother of this. And perhaps you would pay better attention to the brother-murdering aspect of my tale, yes?”

They _both_ laugh at this.

“Do we grow the plant on Asgard?” Thor asks.

“Likely. Though I’m sure it would be kept well out of reach.” Likely secured in one of the palace’s botany research gardens to avoid possible cross-contamination, Loki thinks. He sniggers again then. “But remember that on Midgard, it’s hung from door frames to entice kisses from unwitting suspects. Imagine that.”

“How strange,” Thor remarks, lips quirking upwards. “Poisonous kisses, or nice ones?”

“Both?” Loki replies with a smirk while draining the rest of his drink. The tankard almost feels brittle between his fingers now, but his face is the picture of innocence. He considers a possibility, then shuns it from his mind. “Anyway, I believe you quite safe for now. Though might I suggest you fly away with your oafish hammer soon?” Thor shrugs at the words. Loki’s grin widens. “Quickly now, golden child—before the tides change and I poison you.”

***

Thor flies high in Asgard’s sky, alone. He had wanted his first such trip courtesy of Mjolnir to be shared with his brother, but he supposes that the time alone has afforded him much-needed clarity instead.

_Every cloud has a silver lining_.

***

Later, there is a knock at Thor’s door. He opens the heavy slab of wood and metal, and finds his brother standing there. Loki wears a sneering smirk that somehow carries an air of sheepishness with it.

“Here,” he says, offering the item from his palm to Thor. A gift — exquisitely wrapped in paper that shimmers in purple and green, adorned with a huge golden bow and ribbon.

“A gift?” Thor says as he clamps the door shut. “And _not_ a trick?”

“Perhaps.”

Thor unwraps the parcel. It’s the book recounting Midgard’s strange and popular celebrations. Despite Loki’s nonchalance and obvious mockery, Thor is touched by it. “Thank you,” he says, voice softer than it usually is.

“Well. Any excuse to encourage you to read.” Loki looks to the ground. “Also,” he continues, face blank and then filled with mischief all at once as a huge piece of mistletoe appears from the palm of his hand. “I bring you death!” He thrusts it into Thor’s face.

Thor startles at first, but sees the jest for what it truly is — harmless fun. He snatches the item from his brother’s hand and assesses it.

“How in damned Hel are you to supposedly murder our non-existent brother with _this_?”

“It’s not real, you oaf. Just a modified approximation I conjured up earlier,” Loki shrugs. “Perhaps a real piece is somehow scarier.” He smirks.

“Ha! Well plants _are_ _known_ to be quite scary.”

“Or perhaps,” Loki deadpans, “I simply force a kiss upon poor Brother Baldr, and he dies of shock.”

Awkward, weighted silence.

Thor smiles, distracts. “ _Two_ thoughtful gifts and I did not get you even one. Forgive me, brother.” He looks mischievous then, playful as he brushes his hands across the not-mistletoe. “Tell me, how does the kissing part work again?”

“I think they place it above doors and it’s implicitly binding,” Loki mutters, flicking through the Midgardian myth book. He shrugs, feigning disinterest. “Or something like that. Mortals _are_ incredibly stupid.”

Ignoring his brother, Thor dangles the branch above and between their faces. “Like this?”

Before Loki can retort, Thor’s lips are upon his, as is his calamitous force; both combined knock the wind out of Loki — and perhaps this _was_ how the old fable went, because he cannot think, cannot breathe, until Thor pulls away — looking equally as shocked.

“I…”

“Are you alright?” Thor says. Loki gasps for air and restraint, unable to maintain his usual steadfast veneer.

“I— I just did not expect my first—” he halts, then, but it’s already too late. Thor does not miss the implication of the words, though.

“Forgive me,” he says with grave concern, before lightening his tone, “for claiming your first kiss as—”

“Brother.” Loki stares, open-mouthed. Whether it is to finish Thor’s sentence, a question or accusation or all three is anybody’s guess. The book drops from his hands with audible thud.

“This is why the mischief is best left to you,” Thor laments. “I am too clumsy with it.”

“Shut up,” Loki spits, while absentminded fingers trace over his own lips. “I must go.”

“Brother—” but it is too late, in a whirl, Loki is already gone. And given the circumstances— along with his arousal, Thor thinks it best not to follow.

“Merry Christmas, brother,” he mutters, while looking at the wretched, mocking gift in his palm.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after editing I've split this work into 3 chapters. Let's pretend it's still Christmas and enjoy! :D
> 
> Happy New Year, by the way <3

Loki does not run to his own chambers. Instead, he ventures across the Bifrost. When he reaches, Heimdall stands proudly, protecting and watching over the realms.

Truly? Heimdall does not care for Loki. Loki knows this. Besides, it is common preference for all to consider the dark Odinson suspicious against such a golden canvas as Thor. Still, when Heimdall senses Loki’s presence he turns his gaze and offers a nod of respect.

“My Prince.”

“Heimdall.”

A silence both solemn and uncomfortable.

“What brings you here?” Heimdall eventually asks, monotone, and Loki fears he already _knows_.

Inwardly Loki curses— for bringing himself to the attention and proximity of such a powerful watchgod when he’s tried _so_ hard recently to hide that which he does not wish Heimdall to see.

Still, he does relish a challenge.

“No particular reason,” he shrugs in response, and Heimdall’s steadfast stare hones in. Loki clears his throat. “Other than it’s a season of festivities. On Midgard. For some mortals… I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I am curious to know how it fares.”

Heimdall raises an eyebrow. “Much the same every year, and not so unlike any of our own revelry… in that it heavily features consumption of too much fine food and beverage, generosity in spirit and feuding between kin.”

“You make a fair comparison,” Loki says, somewhat perplexed. “But we are always above mortals, are we not?”

“In longevity, knowledge and power, yes. Though they possess strength in many other ways, the extent to which may surprise you.”

Loki smirks at this. “I highly doubt it,” he sneers, haughty.

“Is this the only reason why you travel to the Observatory tonight?” Heimdall’s eyebrow quirks again, though Loki does not see past the heavy golden helmet that shrouds expression.

“Yes.” Loki meets Heimdall’s stare with defiance. “And now that it is answered, I shall bid you farewell.”

He turns to leave — and it is only then that Heimdall allows the smirk to reach his lips. “Merry Christmas, Odinson.”

Loki halts for a second, waves his hand, and walks away.

He walks and walks. Walks back through lesser-used and paths unknown, to the more central wards; then aimless through the golden halls of the citadel —up and up and up to where no soul usually bothers to tread— until he reaches the sweeping utmost columns that overlook the city below. He stops then, stares out at the dark night. Even through muted, cloudy hues of black, grey and blue— indicative of oncoming storm no doubt by an upcoming brotherly tantrum— somehow Asgard _still_ shines golden. It ought to be impossible. And it ought not to be so damned perfect, particularly on such a day of no speciality or relevance.

Loki sneers. But of course. Asgard’s mediocrity would likely still shine a thousand times brighter than a hundred Midgard feast days combined, with no consideration or thought required.

As the sun starts to rise again, eventually Loki tires of the perfect view offered to his eyes; decides instead that dreams would be preferable — blind emotional ignorance by far the better option. Loki can do it. He can deny to himself the idea that Thor’s lips upon his own had _not_ already carved out a place in his mind long before this wretched evening past.

Lying is, after all, his best trick.

***

When Loki finally reaches the comfort of his own bedchamber, on his bed lies a gift. Ill-wrapped, but clearly not down to the effort bestowed in the action; the paper is a crimson red, doubled thrice over and secured with reams of wholly unnecessary silk-spun green twine, most likely stolen from their mother’s precious fabric collection.

A smile. A note:

_‘Sorry, brother. Feel free to avenge yourself for a kiss stolen.’_

Bundled together with more of the string. A book of magic. Fresh, _real_ mistletoe and sprigs of holly. A single throwing knife from the precious and coveted collection, exquisite in its craftsmanship.

“Faultless.” A heart-warmed smile creeps over Loki’s face as he says the word aloud. Thor is going to be in serious trouble for stealing from the library, the botanical gardens _and_ the Vault.

 _Especially_ the Vault.

“Don’t expect me to take your vengeance lying down, though.” The voice comes from the shadow of his room, and Loki scowls for being too distracted to notice. “I have weapons of my own, brother.” Thor jiggles an extra sprig of mistletoe in his fingers, along with the other throwing knife.

And just for a moment, Loki forgets all his troubles. “I’ve told you about entering my chambers without due consent.” He poises himself— mirror image of his brother, weapons in hand. “It is punishable by deed.”

“Aye.” Thor’s eyes dance and he flicks mistletoe in the air as if it truly _is_ dangerous. “You had better put limbs to use then.”

They fight that well-versed brotherly fight, which isn’t really battle at all—more like a choreographed version of fond memory and harmless physicality. This particular time, it ends with Thor on his back in concession, Loki looming over him. His cloak shrouds them both; emerald feathers protecting a bird’s catch.

“Am I forgiven?” Thor asks from below, hopeful.

“Almost.” Loki tucks the mistletoe branch behind Thor’s ear, brushing golden strands of hair with it. And why must his brother be quite _so_ handsome?

He looks at the mistletoe. Thor’s face. The mistletoe again.

Offers a peck to Thor’s cheek— out of obligation. They laugh, kiss again, but this time on lips. Chaste enough. But before they know it, the door’s slammed shut with Loki pressed against it as Thor rises from the floor, lavishes hot kisses upon his brother as though the fabric of time depends upon ardour. His tongue presses deep, and Loki allows it, reciprocates it.

Loki wraps his legs around Thor’s middle.

The kissing continues, passionate and unyielding, until Loki starts to fumble with his own clothing.

Thor — with no such regard for garments — rips at Loki’s new leathers, soon exasperated because they won’t budge; so instead he gives up and manages to pull out only the hardness that longs for his touch.

They both groan at the feel of it; Thor’s rough fingers on Loki’s smooth skin. Though Loki is no shrinking violet. He aims for Thor’s throat with his teeth, tastes piercingly metallic on his tongue, bites down until he draws blood to the surface of Thor’s flesh, pleased with the resulting bloom it brings.

“We shouldn’t be doing this, Thor,” Loki stammers eventually. Trust _him_ to see sense first.

“I know,” Thor agrees, “but do you wish to stop?” He licks and tastes Loki’s neck before pulling back again. “Because I do not.”

Loki inhales deeply the scent of his brother and finds his answer. He pulls Thor down for a rough kiss while wondering if anybody else could feel even nearly as good. Perhaps he doesn’t wish to know the answer.

As if reading his mind, Thor smiles into his mouth. “I have wanted—”

But Loki scoffs and reclaims _his_ mouth, because he doesn’t want to hear it. Thor takes off the rest of Loki’s armour with care now, until Loki is stripped down to a beautiful, lean body wearing only his leathers. Muscles tight, skin tighter still.

Thor assesses the remaining garment and smirks, remembering their earlier conversation. “Hmm, brother. So _tight_ around your legs.”

“Shut up.”

“Mm, smooth and soft,” Thor remarks, grazing his hands across the centre of Loki’s chest, dragging the finger down to the dip of his belly button. “So beautiful you are, my brother.” Soft. Feminine. Weak.

“No.” For reasons unknown, Loki _cannot_ shun the words out of his mind. “I’ll not have it.” Loki won’t go any further. He pushes Thor away. “I-I refuse to be your little ergi plaything.”

“I meant no harm by it,” Thor says, looking bewildered.

“What, other than I remind you of some fragile little woman you once bedded?” Loki bites, making his way over to the bed while pulling tunic over torso. “Was it Sif you were so misty-eyed for? We _are_ both raven-headed— is that your preference?” He makes a mocking pose.

Thor stands up and halts. “To be truthful, brother, I have had no one in my bed.” He thinks upon his words. “In any bed. Or anywhere else.”

“No _man_.” Loki retorts.

“Or woman,” Thor confesses further, though he gets defensive under Loki’s untrusting glare. “What woman could I trust that would not want me to sire a bastard child?”

“Si—”

“ _Loki_ ,” Thor shouts now, exasperated at his brother’s seemingly endless pit of jealousy, “She is my friend. Nothing more.” He sits down beside Loki on the bed.

“And is this _friendly_ sentiment reciprocated?” Loki clicks his teeth together and looks away. He didn’t realise he was merely a toy for Thor to experiment with. It cuts as sharp as a fresh throwing dagger. “Never mind. Better to have no womb at all, I suppose. Clever, for an oaf.”

“You’re twisting this, brother.” Thor growls, grabbing Loki’s shoulders. “I-can you not see? I would want no-one else but you.” A hand cradles neck now, all but pleading. “I _want_ no-one else but you.”

“You are a fool.”

“I know. But I can deny it no longer.”

Loki glances at the strewn mistletoe, wondering how poisonous it really is.

Clarity cuts deep within him now. If they were to be caught doing this they would both punished, brutally. Asgard is liberal and progressive in many ways, but stigmatisation is steadfast for such desire.

Especially between blood.

“We shouldn’t be doing this, Thor.” As Loki repeats the words, he also wonders who really needs to hear it.

“I know,” Thor agrees once more, lowering his gaze and letting go. “But would you have us stop like this?”

Loki looks at Thor’s lips, red and swollen and perfect. All he wants to do is bite the lower ’til it is bruised and bleeding. He will not admit it, though.

Never.

“Yes, I would.”

“Fine,” Thor pulls his hand away, rueful. “Though I do not yet know how I _can_.” Bitter silence stretches out. “Will you at least forgive me for my offence?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Loki concedes, picking up the daggers from the floor. “It’s likely father will kill you soon enough anyway for having stolen these.”

“Yes, there is that,” Thor cracks a small grin, but his pain is clear. “I’m not well-read in Midgard tradition yet, but I do believe your earlier words claimed that this is a time for forgiveness? Perhaps it will be seen so.”

“Hm,” Loki smirks at the idea of their father forgiving Thor’s thievery because of some inane mortal belief, but now the game feels different. Scarier. “Possibly.”

“And perhaps stealing could be our very _own_ Christmas tradition…”

“Shut up, Thor.” Loki casually stabs both of the daggers into the bed’s fabrics. “And let me play with my toys.”

“Only if you kiss me goodbye.”

Loki rolls his eyes. He presses his mouth to Thor’s and pretends to feel nothing. Only it doesn’t work: he feels everything and more.

Reluctantly, Thor pulls away. He rises. Only when he reaches the door does he speak. “I am sorry for hurting you with clumsy words, Loki. But I cannot be sorry for my actions tonight, wrong as they may seem. Know that I love you.”

Loki stares at the closed door, the daggers, the mistletoe.

He cries.

***


	3. Chapter 3

A week is not a long time for mortals, even less so for gods.

Still, the proceeding days pass slow and painful for Loki.

Every single morning, noon and evening, Thor asks him if he wishes to fly with Mjolnir, and every single time Loki gives an excuse.

He feels unwell, he must study. He’d prefer to bathe. There’s a particularly interesting incident in the courtyard. He needs to master a spell. He feels unwell again.

Still, Thor does not tire of asking him, stubborn fool he is.

The week spirals into month, another month, another. On and on until Loki must pretend that he doesn’t remember: it’s one year to the day.

_Christmas Damned._

As soon as he wakes, he stays well away from his chambers for as long as he can. The library, the gardens. The very top of the citadel.

He hopes he does not receive a gift from Thor, and certainly he does not plan to give Thor any offering; such sentiment would be foolish, fodderish and beneath Loki. Still, when he finally _does_ give up hiding, so late into the day that it’s in fact the dead quiet of night, and returns to his room to find nothing there, he cannot help but feel sharp pangs of disappointment and sorrow.

He checks every crevice of the room for a trace of Thor.

Except for beneath his pillow.

He should really have checked beneath his pillow. Especially _before_ getting into bed and sliding his hand under there, only to have it sliced open by a sharp blade.

Loki curses more from shock than pain, lifts the pillow up to find one of the same daggers— confiscated and placed _back_ into the Vault about a week after they were stolen. Thor had argued with Odin the unfairness of Loki being denied something he so deserved.

 _“In time,”_ Odin had said. _“Not yet.”_ Thor was to be denied Mjolnir for a month as punishment, though he kicked up such fuss that she was returned to him by the day’s end. Loki had hated that.

He hates _this_ even more though. Without hesitation nor any other thought besides rage, he storms to Thor’s chambers and flings the door open with an unlock-relock cantrip.

Thor sits upright on the bed, sleep-foggy.

Loki pounces on him and holds the blade to his throat, one hand still trickling with blood. The other dagger is next to Thor’s head. A lot can change in a year. “Just what in Hela’s Realm do you call _these_?”

“Throwing daggers, I think.” Thor says, straight-laced. “A rather nice Christmas gift, I had thought.”

Loki recoils. “Look!” he thrusts his palm at Thor’s face. The wound is not exactly what one would deem life-threatening. Still.

“Oh.” Thor’s eyes widen with false pretence. “But I’m sure you will live.”

“You knew it would harm me,” Loki says flatly, realising his mistake. Underneath his pillow would bring about the element of surprise, true. And it would also bring Loki right to the place he’d been avoiding all year. With incandescent rage.

“Actually, I thought you would be here about five hours ago.” Thor wriggles out of bed, not a bit prudent of the fact he’s stark naked. “And then I assumed you weren’t coming at all.” He walks towards the burning fire and picks up an iron kettle resting on the floor of the pit, pouring a fruity, rich-smelling liquid into the two goblets from the mantel. “Mulled wine. It may be a little congealed now,” he says, offering a drink to Loki.

“Are you mad?” Loki barks, sounding just like the mad one.

“Well it may not be fit for a feast, but I’m sure it will still taste—”

“Not _that_ ,” Loki snatches the proffered goblet away and clutches with white knuckles. “You left one of Alfheim’s sharpest daggers beneath my pillow and didn’t think I would find out the rough way?”

Thor sits beside him, _finally_ pensive. “I thought you would check there first.” He drinks, wipes his mouth, thinks. “Perhaps I have gotten another Midgardian tradition confused with a Christmas one. Blame the book, brother.”

“Fool.” Loki sips his wine. It tastes rich, spicy— orange, cinnamon, cardamom and anise dance together on his tongue. Thor smiles at the restrained pleasure on Loki’s face.

“A forgiven fool?” he asks, hopeful.

“Hardly.” Loki considers his rash answer though, while admiring Thor’s affronted expression. He drains his goblet, giving a satisfying smack of lips. “Perhaps if there is more wine. And you actually _apologise_.”

Well, it _is_ Christmas.

“Brother, forgive me and my foolish ways.” Thor grabs Loki’s hand. The wound is already healing, but he presses his lips to the reddened flesh. Loki’s blood burns hot through his veins the longer lips linger. Finally, Thor pulls away, but he keeps gentle hold of Loki’s wrist. “Better?”

There is a knowing, mischievous glint in Thor’s eyes. Loki glares for a second, huffs, and then allows desire to take over. He shoves Thor back on the furs and crashes mouths together, tastes teeth and flesh and blood; a pounding heart to match the rhythm of his own. The goblets roll and clatter, forgotten on the stone floor.

Thor pulls back for air, and Loki is as bad, gasping to the point of hyperventilation. They are lip-stained from the sweet wine and trembling with adrenaline.

“I have missed you, brother.” Thor says, woeful, hand cradling Loki’s neck.

“I haven’t been gone.”

“You _have_.” Then Thor removes Loki’s nightclothing with a strange fastidiousness Loki would not expect him to have.

So Loki is naked too now, body aching and responsive to Thor’s wilful, sensuous touch. Thor’s _already-nakedness_ shows he is keen and willing— shallow breathing rising and falling rapidly in his chest, erection so flushed and engorged it’s a bruising, reddish purple contrasting against golden backdrop.

“This time, let me say it right.” He drags shaky fingers across Loki’s skin. Considers his words. “Your skin is so soft here, brother.” Lingers at Loki’s abdomen, just before reaching the dark trail of black curls. “But you? You are not soft.” His expression is fond, elsewhere just for a moment.

Then, blue eyes burn fierce and present as rough fingertips, now steady, draw back up trembling flesh, resting around Loki’s neck, pulling them close together once more. “You are solid and hard, unrelenting. Both beautiful and handsome,” he whispers, bites on earlobe as Loki gasps at the sensation. “Clever and sharp, unlike any other.”

Loki has a thousand compliments to reciprocate on the tip of his tongue, but not a single one manages to fall from the cliff’s edge.

“As stubborn as I,” Thor continues, murmurs into Loki’s neck while nipping at sensitive flesh. “But able to hide it much better.”

Finally, Loki finds words. “Be fair, brother. No-one could _possibly_ be as stubborn as you,” he chides, and Thor’s reply is a rumbling vibration of amusement across pale throat. “After all,” he continues, himself amused, “who would steal from Odin’s Vault the same item twice?”

“Can we _not_ discuss father thus?” Thor growls now, affronted, while Loki cackles.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, but the indifference and smirk are wiped away from Loki as Thor wraps a tight palm about his cock, pressing it against his own.

The brothers both seize up in unison at the strange sensation as Thor flicks his wrist with little finesse, passage slicked already by their combined secretion. Loki spits into his own palm anyway, slicks the tip of Thor’s manhood so that he may capture a moan straight from his mouth.

“For you, brother,” Thor says, gasping, “I would steal anything that which is your right to have, a thousand times over.”

Loki kisses the wilful expression from his face then— greedy to wear such steadfast duty as his own mask of honour. He too covers Thor’s clenched fist with his own, encouraging him harder, faster.

Thor growls feral after a moment, vexed as he shoves Loki to the furs beneath, pressing his whole body’s weight against the slighter frame of his brother. “I cannot feel you enough,” he laments, almost laughably, as he continues to stroke them both while biting, licking and kissing Loki’s throat, mouth, face.

Loki’s mind is a melt-pot of desire as his fingernails dig deep into the planes of golden flesh above him. Somewhere in the spiral of thought, he cannot help but feel remorse that in this, his first experience of love-making, he _knows_ already no other soul will surpass the way his brother makes him feel. Burning. Alive. Loved.

Loki comes first, rough and fast; almost too much to bear. Thor comes soon after, teeth deep and pressed bruising against Loki’s pulsing throat. Their spend lies sticky between them, but Thor does not wait long to recover from orgasm before his head’s dipped low and his tongue is chasing the taste he’d long been fearful to desire. His mouth hums in appreciation as Loki’s pale flesh quivers beneath it.

Loki is not quite so bold. Instead, he swipes a finger up his own belly and brings it to his mouth, sucking tentative around the digit. Thor looks up; catches sordid sight and his lips curl feral; then they curl around Loki’s softening cock, licking and sucking him to a squirming and almost unbearable fresh arousal before he’s had a chance to recover from the first.

The feel of Thor’s tongue on his re-hardening flesh makes Loki’s toes curl with pleasure, though. He chances a glimpse of his brother, who’s now taking as much of Loki’s cock as he can with a greedy mouth, and notes that Thor’s own arousal is once again flushed and firm.

_Animalistic._

Between moans of unrestrained pleasure, Loki manages to speak. “Th-Thor,” he manages, mind reeling. “Pluh—please, a moment—”

Thor does so, “What is it?” he snarls, releasing Loki’s flesh with an indecent popping sound from the hollow of his mouth, looking both debauched and vexed.

Loki wonders how to ask without sounding like a pathetic maiden. A hypocrite, weak and unmanly. _Will you have me?_

“I do not wish to harm you,” Thor says flatly, already knowing full well what Loki wants through the language of their physicality.

But ah, Loki knows what Thor is _really_ afraid of. “I won’t accuse you of subjugation.” A ridiculous sentence, given that Loki’s thighs are currently astride Thor’s face. “That’s a promise.”

“There are many ways to harm,” Thor warns, backing away from Loki’s flesh, though his own body is still treacherous in its desire.

“I thought you said I was _unrelenting_ and _solid_?” Loki goads, “Or were they just pleasing little words of flattery?”

Thor shoves at him with desire and rage, then holds back.

“What?” Loki continues, “Do you think me a delicate blossom, quivering in the wind?” And his voice _is_ quivering, but Thor is kind enough instead to answer him with a violent kiss. Thor’s hands have a vice-like grip on Loki’s wrists, and Loki can taste _himself_ on Thor’s tongue; a dizzying revelation.

In truth, there is nothing Thor wants more than to push into Loki and claim him, for in his mind that means they are _both_ had and belong to one another more than ever. “I would take you ten times just tonight, Loki, if it is your wish.”

“Just ten?” Loki smirks, goads. He stops smirking when he feels Thor’s fingers brush against the curves of his buttocks and then decidedly deeper, seeking entrance.

“Turn around,” Thor says. Loki feels like a mare on inspection as Thor spreads his cheeks and halts, seemingly unsure how to proceed. Loki can feel little puffs of air against the sensitive flesh and feels his face flushing red.

“Are going to just stare at—ah!”

Thor’s tongue presses gently against his hole and oh, he hadn’t expected that at _all_. It’s an exquisite torture, nerve endings on fire as Thor’s muscle works the flesh open with increasingly successful action, until Loki as all but a spit-slathered, trembling mess on the bed beneath.

It seems in this also, _learn by doing_ is Thor’s motto. Unless. _Unless_ …

Jealousy surges hot through Loki’s veins. “Mmm—magh, too attuned to be new to this,” he manages through ragged breaths, though he makes no attempt to move. He feels Thor’s beard bristle into a smile against his buttocks.

“I can assure you, brother, I am very much new to whatever this is.” Thor pulls Loki’s cheeks open a little wider, licking downward to the sensitive flesh of testicles before licking upward once more. Then, a firm finger breeches skin, and Loki’s body is flamed anew.

He howls with pleasure and pain.

“Does it hurt?” Thor asks. “Should I fetch some oil? If you would prefer us to change place—”

“Shut up,” Loki barks. “Continue.”

So Thor does. He presses deep and reaching, adds more tongue. Adds another finger, stretches. More tongue. Loki cannot help but moan and claw at the furs, body involuntarily succumbing to these new and exciting feelings of pleasure.

Loki’s now flat on his back. Before he realises he’s babbling nonsense, he’s already begged Thor five times to stop niggling and just fuck him already. “ _Enough_ ,” he growls again, straight into Thor’s dirty mouth this time. “Just—gah. If you do not replace f-fingers with manhood this instant, I will—” but the threat is caught short as Thor presses in _properly_.

The feeling of cock is so different to everything before; it stretches and fills Loki’s skin as though a perfect, painful fit, and he wraps legs tight about Thor’s waist, eliciting a deep moan from them both as Thor’s body becomes flush against Loki’s own.

“ _Brother_ ,” Thor rasps, pressing fingertips into the concave of Loki’s shoulders. “I will not last.”

“ _Good_ ,” Loki says. His own hands wander across golden planes again, mindless, until they reach the curve of taut buttocks. He grips hard, elicits a wince. “Let us finish this with no finesse.”

Granted permission, something snaps within Thor. Loki always has delighted in inciting the berserker range from within him, and it seems there are other delightful ways in which it can manifest: a clenched jaw capturing delicate throat, a pounding, punishing thrust, hands gripping and pushing back legs, hair, shoulders, wrists.

Of course, Loki is also fond of losing control every once in a while. To return the favour, mindless still, he claws at golden hair, scrapes brutal fingernails into sweating skin, bites at lips, shoulders, throat; offers words of unbridled desire— filthy whispers into Thor’s ear.

“Yes,” he hisses as Thor _finally_ takes him in hand and strokes with unrelenting pace, “Norns—”

They do not last long. Thor comes first this time; the pulsing hit of semen in Loki’s most intimate reaches of skin enough to trigger his own orgasm’s spread: first blooming from within and then externally— silken liquid spurting into Thor’s clenched, unwavering fist.

It is the beginning. Though in some ways, it’s also the end.

***

Thor breaks the silence when Loki eventually shuffles around collecting his scattered nightclothes. “Do you think it is always this good?”

 _No_ , Loki wishes to say, _unless it is you and I always_. But it won’t leave his heart. Instead he offers the next best reassurance. Snide.

“What, Christmas?” Loki smirks. “Perhaps if the gifts are less harmful.”

“Come now, brother. Do not mock me.”

Modesty now covered, Loki settles back into the furs and finds himself soon captured in an embrace that squeezes truth from him. “I really don’t know, Thor. Perhaps the first act of lovemaking is special. Or fluke.”

“Ah, then we shall have to practise,” Thor smiles. The hiss and crackle of the room’s fire permeates the air for a while then, until Thor breaks silence once more. “Actually, where _is_ my Christmas gift from you?”

“Perhaps there are some stolen Elven blades buried deep somewhere in _your_ bed,” Loki smirks. “Or perhaps I considered you _unworthy_.”

“Tell me though, when will we fly together with Mjolnir?”

“Well,” Loki allows himself a smile. “I suppose there’s no time like the _Christmas-present_ , brother.”

Thor rolls his eyes at such poor word-play, but he pulls Loki closer still and inhales of him deep. “Later then,” he murmurs into sweat-sticky black hair, while protective fingers work their way past emerald garments to spread firm across steady heartbeat. “Let us stay here a while yet.”

Loki doesn’t argue. The warmth of Thor’s skin against his own feels like gifted victory enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are much appreciated <3


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